Recycle, Please!
by Reallybored2
Summary: After jumping off the tower, Buffy is reborn into a new and dangerous life.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** No, and no! I own absolutely **NOTHING HERE!** Joss Whedon and his fine group own _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_ and all the characters, settings, and materials associated with it. J K Rowlings created and owns everything to do with _Harry Potter_. **I OWN NOTHING HERE!**

The story that I wrote was suppose to be a decently short one shot drama depicting the thoughts and point of view of the four different members of Number 4 Privet Drive's household. But, I got bored with it, and decided to do something silly with it by adding a Buffyverse character to it via reincarnation. Then chopped it up, giving each character a chapter of their own.

Which, BtVS character did I drop into the HP Universe? Okay, you can guess this one easily-It's Buffy. Why? Aside from the fact that there's damn few, if any, Buffy as Harry stories out there, I just think that they are a lot more compatible then Xander or Giles, the two that usually get the spot for the Blank-as-Harry role. Both of them have to deal with Prophecies; they have come back from the dead, they have trouble with adult authority figures, they have fickle friends; just breathing brings trouble and chaos down on them. And they both want 'normal' lives.

Harry is going to be OOC, but what can you expect when he's got the memories of a twenty-one year old Slayer lodged in his head?

Here's the story, I hope you enjoy it.

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After jumping off the tower, Buffy is reborn into a new and dangerous life.

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RECYCLE, PLEASE!

**Summary:** When Buffy jumped off Glory's tower and died, she never considered reincarnation a viable option. For a Southern California gal, Buffy was strangely conservative in that area. It was Heaven or Hell for the ol' Buffster. But to prove the Universe (or the PTBs) had a twisted sense of humor, Buffy abruptly awoke to the familiar: Her Slayer senses screaming in the aftermath of a mystical battle. Naturally, there was the usual smell of blood, burning, spent terror, violent death, and the feel of dissipating magical energies. She was not surprised she had a stabbing pain in the middle of her forehead, or blood running down her face-Injury, even if it was temporary, was a common condition for Buffy since becoming a slayer. Her blinking, smoke blurred eyes viewed a devastated, damaged room, a body on the floor-malignant dark spirit escaping through one of the holes puncturing the nursery room walls-even the wails and cries of grief and loss, had sadly become familiar things in her life.

What was new in her extensive slay experience, was a dark-haired, wild-eyed man sudden shooting into the room, running up to her, scooping her up in his arms and cuddling her against his chest, murmuring softly down on the top of her head a single name-

"Harry."

And that was when a completely stunned Buffy realized two important things: She was not in her usual body-And that she was in serious trouble.

**NINE YEARS LATER . . .**

"Boy!"

A wild mop of dark hair popped up from behind a horribly patterned floral wing chair. A few strands of thick, black hair dropped over large round framed glasses that had slipped to the end of his nose. With a single slim finger on the nosepiece, the boy pushed his glasses up the straight nose to their proper place on the bridge of his nose; the thin slivers of transparent crystals strangely distorting the vivid green eyes behind them. Dampening their intensity. At that moment, those green eyes squinted in annoyance. Suspicious arm and hand movements revealed the open back of the over stuffed wing chair-Quickly, small objects disappeared into the interior. Long, nimble fingers flickered over the Velcro edged flap, closing and concealing the hidden compartment.

His pale face schooled into a show of nonchalance, the slim figure of the boy, wearing worn bellbottom jeans and a faded blue and white large stripe shirt, slipped silently from behind the chair clutching a red and yellow featherduster. Inhumanly graceful and silent, the boy crossed the cluttered living room, a rectangular space filled with tasteless and tacky furniture and knick-knacks.

Over the fireplace, on the mantel, sharing space with one incredibly ugly vase, was a collection of pictures recording the history of a family composed of a blond man with a bizarre resemblance to a walrus, including a bushy moustache. A woman with a horsy, simpering face, and a long giraffe like neck. The third blond figure represented in the pictures, depending on progressing age, alternated between the shape and size of a beach ball, to a small baby whale-The only real constant was the figure's nose-_It_ resembled a piggish snout at all ages.

To the dark haired boy's intense, and absolute, relief and gratitude, not a single picture on the mantel was of him in _any_ stage of time whatsoever!

The boy's confident glide abruptly became a stomping, jerky gait-A better representation of a ten years old child's uncoordinated, uncertain and hesitant walk. He entered the kitchen, where the horsy face woman from the pictures sat at the kitchen table.

Instead of a simpering expression, the woman scowled-Her eyes and face radiating disgust and disapproval; the ingratiating, sycophantic face was one Petunia saved for 'quality' people. Certainly not for a good-for-nothing freak, like her nephew! The boy in front of her had years of exposure to her spite and malice, he was immune and indifferent to the expression she focused on him.

"Yes, Aunt Petunia?"

The woman's thin lips tightened and her scowl deepened. The nephew, that was ever the source of her discontent and irritation, the freakish intruder in her normal life and house, stood patiently in front of her, his bright eyes, her sister's Lily's eyes, staring at her. Petunia felt an irrational and spiteful urge to scratch and dig them out. Lily's eyes-The girl who received anything and everything just by batting her eyelashes and flashing those unnatural, freakish eyes-! Resentment and jealousy rolled through Petunia's chest and the urge to commit violence against her nephew spewed into her mind. However, Petunia was nothing less then a careful and controlled and extremely cautious woman; but, beyond all those things, she was foremost a coward and a bully. She caught and restrained herself with barely an outward quiver.

Besides, Petunia had to reluctantly, secretly, admit, there was something unsettling in those eyes . . .Something . . .something . . .dark. Something dangerous . . .Something that made Petunia even more cautious then usual, and to some degree, fearful of her nine year old nephew.

Lily's eyes, maybe, Petunia considered uneasily, but there was nothing of her sister's gentle and forgiving nature in those freakishly green eyes. Nothing Lily could have passed on . . .But nothing James Potter could have either, Petunia was solidly confident of that! For all James Potter was an even bigger freak then her sister; born as he was directly to _them_! No, no, not James Potter . . .She was certain . . .

Back then, Petunia had the misfortune of having to meet with James Potter on several social occasions she was not able to avoid. She had judged the man to have had been spoiled in the way only the wealthier, and powerful, upper classes could-And for that upbringing, be somewhat selfish and extremely dangerous. Upon a few occasions, Petunia was quite certain she had witnessed flashes of cruelty in his hazel eyes. Not for the first time, Petunia was caught wondering how Lily could ever have come to love a man like James Potter. That never made sense to her at all!

So, if not from Lily, or that freak she married, where did that awful, terrifying Darkness she sensed and saw in the boy come from?

Attempting to suppress the thought and failing, unbidden, frightening stories of fairies and Changelings came to her mind. As usual, whenever she considered that possibility, her stomach turned into a frozen stone at not only hosting one of those creatures, but the very idea that she could possibly be related _to those things_! The thought disgusted and appalled her. While the freaks were bad enough, at least _They_ were Human-If barely! Though, the thought of ridding herself of her nephew on such a narrow technicality gladdened Petunia's heart, until she recalled their grandmother's strange green _glowing_ eyes-Exactly like the boy's.

No, Petunia was disappointed to acknowledge that her faint of hope of saving herself and her family (_her real family_) was a brief, failed dream. Conveniently ignoring the fact that her grandmother's blood ran through both her and her son, Dudley. Mentally Petunia sighed to herself. She would have to wait and endure . . .At least, until the freaks came for the boy, liked that head freak promised.

She silently scoffed-How could a freak be trusted to keep his word? It was not like they were normal people . . .No, not at all. Admittedly, not that it was all bad news-Her freak nephew did at least bring in some cash in the form of a maintenance stipend; while her husband did make a decent salary, things, like food, were so expensive and getting more so. Her Dudders was a growing boy; he needed more food. And Vernon was a healthy, robust man-He needed man-size portions to remain that way.

Other expenses came up. Her Duddikins needed-No, deserved better things. Children could be so cruel; trivial things could cause them to turn on a perfectly innocent likeable child: so nothing but the best for her baby boy. The newest fashions, the best toys-The toys she could defend, Petunia rationalized they were tools, to help her sweet Dudders develop his mental and academic potential.

In moments of painful honesty with herself, Petunia had to admit her sweet little Duddicoo was not as brilliant as she or his father, Vernon, hoped or expected him to be. But he was not stupid; all he needed was a little confidence, and her baby Duddies could shine! But how could he feel the slightest bit confident when that freak pulled in perfect grades, and just had to, spitefully enough, rub them in Dudders face?

Vernon, good father that he was, tried to 'correct' the freak. Tried to get the freak to fail a few tests, to get lower grades-That would have been the proper, decent thing for the freak to do, to show his gratitude for everything they had done for him. Instead, instead . . .Vernon . . .somehow ended up with a broken nose. And his head and shoulders wedged into the oven, with an apple shoved into his mouth, while his rear sported a dusty and tiny foot imprint!

When that horrible, _evil_, freak of a boy was threatened with an orphanage for his unspeakable acts, all he did was smirk, and reminded them that his maintenance checks would be forwarded to the orphanage as well!

They should have just sent him packing to an orphanage, right there and then-Petunia recalled, nearly shaking in self-righteous fury. Except, except . . .Duddikins new educational toys . . .How were they going to pay for them then?

Honesty and reality were rarely factors in Petunia's life. She believed what she believed and that was that. But the reality and the black and white honesty reflected on a bill was too pressing and harsh to ignore. They had gotten used to a lifestyle that had only been made possible with the boy's money. And the boy-Petunia knew she would have to hire someone to take over the boy's physically demanding 'chores'. The yard work alone was beyond her means to manage by herself. But without the money, they had no alternatives or options, except to try and do those jobs themselves. Now, how could they do that? Vernon, poor man, was usually too tired from working all day. Have him take up extra chores, after he arrived home from work? Just to cruel and scandalous to be considered! As for her Dudders, he needed the time to play and be a child. After all, a childhood, a precious childhood came only once in a lifetime.

That left the ungrateful boy. The boy who did cooperated, who did the chores, but did them with a surly attitude-And a dangerous glint in his green eyes. Freakish eyes, that had been muted, a relieved Petunia thought, by those ridiculous glasses the boy had found. She quietly scoffed at the audacity of the child, coming to her with that nurse's note, demanding new glasses while wearing a set on his face! Glasses the boy admitted he had found in a dustbin, on his walk home from school. Why, why should she pay for new glasses when he had provided a pair for himself already?

Regardless of his attitude, at least the boy did do the work. Rationalizing, and repressing any cautionary voice within her, the thin, sour woman soothed over her concerns; knowing how important the next day was going to be for her standing in the neighborhood, utilizing the boy's labors was just an unavoidable and necessary evil.

"Boy." Petunia ground out harshly. Regardless of his perfectly respectful stance, she was certain he was mocking her-Somehow.

Petunia gave her 'nephew' a suspicious glare. She snapped out, peevishly. "Mrs. Bull-Rush, head of the gardening committee, and some of the ladies from the committee, will be coming over for tea tomorrow. For their visit, not only will you be cleaning this house from top to bottom today, but you will also mow the lawn, pull out the weeds in the back and front flowerbeds, trim back the hedges in the backyard-_And_ dust, clean, and polish the lawn furnishings until they shine! Those are in addition to your other chores for today! Is that clear, Boy?"

"Yes, Aunt Petunia," the Boy acknowledged, seemingly respectful enough. But there was a hint, a subtle hint, of a derisive undertone.

"Well? Get to work!"

The Boy's glasses suddenly slipped down his nose, and he caught Petunia's eyes with his own unobstructed green orbs. Petunia's irritation was abruptly replaced with breath stealing, heart-clenching terror, as that part of her brain that was still sitting in the trees screamed and ran away in the face of a hunting predator. Shadows moved into the bright, cheery kitchen darkening everything except those nearly glowing green eyes. The Boy held Petunia's gaze while slowly backing away in a smooth, silent gait until he disappeared past the kitchen threshold. Only then did the darkened kitchen regain its usual Sun brightened appearance.

Leaving alone, sitting in her own kitchen, a shuddering and sweating Petunia, (a _completely_ normal and properly brought up woman, thank you very much!).

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Yeah, that's that for Petunia. Harry is coming up next. And I did tell you Harry is OOC.


	2. Tea And Scones With The Minotaur

**Disclaimer:** I own **NOTHING HERE!** Joss Whedon and his group own _Buffy the Vampire Slayer,_ as well as all characters, settings, and other associated materials related to it. J. K. Rowlings and her bunch own _Harry Potter_, and everything and everyone belonging to it. **I OWN NOTHING HERE!**

Second chapter is up. This time Harry takes up center stage, with some filler material on top.

Originally, I thought I could finish the story and post it in a reasonable period of time. But instead of just letting it stand as it was, I started making small changes-And found I couldn't stop myself from doing even more changes. So sorry about not posting it when I said I would in the reviews.

Harry, in this fic, is not a nice boy. He's vindictive and dangerous. A soul who's not at all sympathetic with a group of people who are powerful and lethal, but refuse to fight for themselves, and instead, insist a young boy, a child, should take on the responsibility of protecting them.

This Harry, while Dark, won't be completely indifferent to Human suffering-But he's not going to be rushing into dangerous, idiotic adventures either.

I hope you like the story. Thank you for reading it.

On with the story.

After jumping off the Tower, Buffy is reborn into a new and dangerous life.

Tea And Scones With The Minotaur

**Number 4 Privet Drive, 1986**

_He tried resisting it. Oh, God did he try! The strain of holding it in, of keeping it under control nearly shredded his sanity. He knew, he KNEW, no good would come out of allowing it out. Of allowing it out to hunt, to fight . . .To breath in the raw terror of it's enemies, and revel in the excitement of combat, and feel the wild energies flooding through in an almost orgasmic rush. The Slayer, the Slayer, the dark power fused to his soul, pushing behind his eyes . . .While he was awake he was strong and kept it under control . . .But when he slept?_

_Six years old Harry Potter awoke with a sudden start. He shifted his body up to a sitting position, and took deep breaths, attempting to get his racing heart under control. Harry had awoken from one of __**those**__ dreams-The herald of what Buffy Anne Summers had become-Slayer dreams. He tried going back to sleep. He did try, he honestly did. However, the dreams lingered, and the restless feelings grew until it seemed to Harry that electricity crawled and danced under and on his skin._

_ "I'm not Buffy Summers. I'm not Buffy Summers. I'm not Buffy Summers." He whispered fervently into the dark and cramp space of the cupboard under the stairs. "I'm not Buffy Summ-." Harry shot a pained grimace into the dark._

_ With a partial whimper and a groan, Harry kicked away the Star Wars blanket from his legs and rolled off the bed. Harry hastily dressed in the oversized rags he used for yard work; he reached up and with the bottom edge of his palms, pushed and slid open one of the stair treads. With care, Harry slid down one of the back slats. He gracefully climbed out of the cupboard interior, carefully and quietly, sliding the slat and tread back to their original positions._

_ Regardless of the effects of the Valium laced meal he had served to the Dursleys Harry moved silently and quickly. The drugs were salvaged from the trash of the neighbors to the back of Number 4-They were, sadly, the only reason the lady of that house was able to function at all! Although, and not surprisingly, she seemed to have company, if the glazed eyes and stumbling steps of some of the neighborhood ladies were anything to go by. Harry was, however, a little apprehensive about the drugs viability, since their expiration dates had since come and gone._

_ Quickly, Harry slipped out of the house through the front door, confident the neighbors were all asleep in their beds, or otherwise preoccupied, and unlikely to be peering out their windows as they would have been during the day, or in the early evening hours. Regardless of his tiny size, Harry was stealthy and inhumanly fast, running at speeds that left him a blur in passing. Several miles later, he reached the motorway; looking around for a moment, Harry bent down and picked up a fisted sized rock and threw it at an overhanging street light illuminating the ramp connecting the city street with the motorway. With a tinkling crash, the ramp was plunged into darkness._

_ The lorry driver, hauling construction materials, never knew he had picked up a tiny stowaway, when he slowed down at the darkened ramp. Nor did he notice the small boy hurl himself off the lorry upon reaching London._

_ Dusting himself off, and melding back into the shadows, Harry stood still for a moment, allowing his slaydar to unfurl and spread out; there was a familiar tingle almost immediately, and Harry allowed his instincts to pull him in a specific direction._

_ "Sir? C-can you help me? I'm-I'm lost, and I can't find my mommy and daddy." A little plaintive voice called out to a tall man, with a purple Mohawk, piercings and leather._

_ The man hesitated in mid-step. Doubt causing him to stop. Did he hear what he thought he heard? He turned around and looked down at a small boy with dark messy hair, large frightened green eyes, clutching nervously at the bunched up front portion of his over sized shirt. His eyes widened in surprise at the unexpected presence, and his mouth watered-A cruel smile curved his lips._

_ "Sure kid," he said, stepping closer to the tiny, trembling child._

_ He never saw the sharpened piece of wood slam into his chest._

_ "Eww . . .Well, this is a surprise." Harry muttered, staring down with wide green eyes at the puddle of dissolving goo that had been the Mohawked vampire. Harry blinked and shrugged his thin shoulders-Different Universe, different rules. Although, Harry considered thoughtfully, looking down at the rapidly disappearing bubbling ooze-Which almost resembled someone's misguided attempt at cooking guacamole-he preferred the type that went 'Poof!'- Yep, cleaner that way._

_ The Second night started out similar to the first-Except, Harry's decision to leave the house was partially encouraged by the rapid, staccato sounds coming from two gaseous slumbering forms within their separate bedrooms. Harry briefly wondered how a fastidious woman like Petunia could stand sleeping in the same bed with that activity going on within touching distance of her?_

_ Second night was like the first; instinct pulled Harry to London. However, there was a slight problem . . .The vampire had a stick . . ._

_ Harry tried the little lost boy trick, and it was just like his outrageous form of luck, that the vamp had to have an annoying paranoid streak in him-How else could he explain what happened next?_

_ Harry had barely finished speaking when the vampire suddenly pulled out a stick-aimed it RIGHT at Harry-and tried to blast him with a red beam!_

_ Harry's slaydar was frantically screaming long before the vamp completely pulled the stick out of his sleeve, and was diving out of the way, towards the vampire before the red beam hit the spot where he had been. He landed on his hands and quickly flipped over three times, each time avoiding being hit by a hairsbreadth. Harry landed on his feet, came up in a partial crouch in front of the vampire, hit him in the crotch with his tiny left fist, and as the taller male automatically jerked down in pain, punched through the creature's chest with the stake in his right fist._

_ Before the liquefying remains could splash down on him, the small boy launched himself away with his left leg in a twisting side motion that moved him away from the fast descending bubbling goo._

_ "Size matters not!" Harry crowed, victoriously channeling his inner Yoda as he came to a crouching stop._

_ Harry straightened up and grimaced at the puddle of bubbling slime-He eyed the slime, genuinely missing the poofing sort of vampire. His eyes abruptly noticed the stick the vamp had attacked him with, lying innocently on the ground, not too far from the puddle-The vamp had dropped it at some point. Harry walked over to it, stared curiously down at it, and nudged it with the toe of his worn trainers. Memories poked at Harry-The shadowy memories of his life before the Dursleys, teased at him. Harry gulped deeply of the fetid alley air. Harry found it ironic that his pre-Buffy year and a half of life had been harder to access then his previous life's memories. Then again, the Buffy memories were of an adult and essential to his survival; but the memories of a baby, unfocused and hazy . . .? Harry did have a few clear memories of his babyhood, one of them was deciding if a large beetle, spotted on a windowsill, was tasty or not, was, well . . .**Bleagh!** Beetle! Bad memory! Bad, bad memory! The dark haired little boy shook his head to clear it-The look of distress and disgust took longer to clear._

_ That memory was almost as bad as his first Slayer dream, in his new body and life. In that dream, he was back in the First Slayer desert. Sineya was crouching by an open fire, tending to something on a spit. It looked like a pale snake, with a human face. What the First Slayer was cooking for dinner was the least disturbing part of the dream. Catching sight of him, the dreadlock, whiteface painted woman suddenly exploded into laughter! Snarls and a deadly assault Harry was expecting . . .But laughter? Harry was truly terrified._

_ The boy quickly returned his attentions to the stick on the ground._

_ The stick . . .There was a nagging familiarity to it. Harry quickly looked around, satisfied he was truly alone; Harry cleared his mind the way Giles had taught Buffy (And Obi-Wan and Yoda had taught Luke) . . ._

_ "Ah, the hell with it!"_

_ Harry picked up the wand, narrowed his eyes at it, and gave it an experimental swish-Harry was completely unprepared for the thick stream of hot flames that hit and engulfed an entire row of overflowing dustbins, one dumpster, and from the screaming squeaks, several rats as well!_

_ He blinked in wide-eyed wonder (And smoke irritation.), a slow, wicked grin forming on his face and he breathed-"Cool."_

_ Four nights later, Harry cautiously followed a vampire into a dead-end alley. He watched as the creature slipped a wand out of his sleeve and tapped the bricks of the wall, at the end of the alley._

_ The brick wall melted back and reformed into an archway. Beyond it, Harry caught a glimpse of a narrow street, haunted by robed and cloaked figures. The vampire walked through the arch, and a minute later the arch disappeared, and a grungy brick wall took its place._

_ Harry waited, making certain no others were heading to the alley before dropping down from the rooftop he had been on. Peering closely at the bricks, in the general area he had seen the vamp tap the wall with his wand, Harry noted the pitted and grooved condition of one brick. With a grin, he pulled out the wand he had acquired, and tapped the brick as he had seen the vamp do._

_The wall twitched and reformed into an arch._

_ With a large, triumphant, maniacal grin, Harry, excited green eyes stretched wide open, shot through the archway, and into the Wizarding world-Harry James Potter-Welcome to Knockturn Alley!_

"Remember!" The boy screeched in a high pitched, falsetto voice, and succeeded in sounding like Petunia. "Remember, _Boy_, to cut the cucumbers transparent thin. Otherwise, the _Ladies _delicate jaws, studded with those really sharp, iron core fangs, might fall off if they have to chew too hard!"

Chortling with glee, Harry Potter bit down on the over-sized club sandwich he had prepared for himself. Mayonnaise squirted out from the sides and on to his hands, and splattered with a dull wet noise on the waxed wrapper he had spread out on his lap and lower belly. He ignored it, and only grabbed a couple of paper napkins, and attended to the mess after he had swallowed several large bites, and decimated the stacked sandwich down to half its formidable size.

Unconcerned about the considerable mess he was making, or the satisfied burp he released, Harry lounged back on the comfortable bulk of the shabby recliner he had discovered abandoned in the garage of a house up for sale. The chair's original ivory color had long been compromised and altered to a light brown, with a few darker stains and rings on its arms and body. Not that esthetics matter that much to the dark haired boy-Aside from the stains, it was whole and sound, and still functioned as a cozy and comfortable chair. For Harry, it was well worth the considerable trouble he had in moving it from it's last location, and down into the secret chamber, Harry had hidden, under the Dursley's garden shed. Oh, Petunia and Vernon would have been just so thrilled to learn of Harry's improvements to their property!

He would have gladly given them a guided tour if only to see that shade of red Vernon could sometimes hit.

Speaking of Vernon . . .The Walrus was going to be late getting home-again. Harry smirked past his mouthful, and glanced at the two stacks of tires taking up space in his little hidey-hole. One stack was three tires tall, and seemed relatively new. The other stack was where the tired, worn specimens resided. Good thing for Harry that dearest Vernon never looked too closely at his tires-Exchanging the new ones with cleaned up used tires assured Vernon a flat at some point in his commute to or from his job at Grunnings. Not that Harry's sabotage stopped at Vernon's tires-There were car batteries and several containers of petrol near the tires. He certainly had to learn a lot about cars to play around with Vernon's 'company' cars. Switching the batteries was a relatively easy and quick operation, but messing with the petrol gauge was a whole different story.

Still, it was worth the effort to learn how to do it, just to have Vernon stranded by the side of the road, yelling at a gauge that had suddenly, without warning, dropped down to 'Empty', when he knew he had filled up the tank just the day before.

Ah, what good clean fun he had been having at the Dursley's! Harry reminded himself, staring out towards an imagined distance, that all things come to an end. The car parts he salvaged from Vernon's cars, Harry mostly sold . . .Although, Harry did hold back a small amount of petrol. It was part of his escape plan. When the time came, Number 4 Privet Drive was, yes, indeedy, going to burn, burn, burn-Down to the ground, baby! Oh, hot damn! What a joyous, bright day that was going to be for one Harry James Potter!

Too bad for the Dursleys . . .That big, fat insurance check they were going to be expecting? Good news, it was not going to become lost in the mail. Bad news, it was never going to be in the mail in the first place! Harry had canceled their insurance policies, and had been intercepting the outgoing checks, and the incoming warning letters from the Dursley's former insurance carrier.

Jeez, what the hell else could they have expected, making him drop off their mail at the post office, and then fetch the incoming mail when it arrived? Harry had an overflowing cardboard box of the Dursley's undelivered mail-Some of it actually important.

Harry's mouth curled up into an evil smirk, a dab of mayonnaise on his left cheek. His dancing, green eyes landing upon an odd terrarium, with tiny, green, healthy marijuana plants thriving under a single sunlamp. The set up was magical of course. Peel off the glued on runes, on their container, and the whole lot grew to normal size practically within an eye blink. There were enough plants to fill up about half the Dursley's backyard, Harry calculated. When those firefighters responded to the call at Number 4, not only where they going to get a nose full from the burning dry weed, Harry had hidden here and there in the house, but they were also going to get an eye full. Since Petunia was known to be the only acknowledged gardener in the household . . .Well . . .Heh, heh. To make matters even better, Dudley's secret stash of male porn was bound to be discovered, out in the open, spread out all over his room. One of the few rooms in the house, Harry had placed protective runes on. Oh, and the Inland Revenue Service might decide to have a few words with Vernon about the financial records they anonymously received in the mail.

The dark haired boy's eyes narrowed . . .He had similar plans for Dudley's gang of 'little' friends. The thought of setting their feet firmly on the road to years and years of therapy gave Harry a warm, fuzzy feeling. Harry paused, and . . .No, actually, what he was feeling was heartburn; but Harry was nevertheless certain he was going to enjoy handing out to them their well-deserved, and too long overdue, comeuppance. Regardless of the appearance of any suspected internal fuzzies.

Given how poorly the neighbors had treated him, thanks in part to Petunia's vicious lies, Harry decided that backed up sewers, inconvenient power outages, and foul, unidentifiable smells were nice, appropriate, going away prezzies for them. If the wizards, he had discovered living on hidden lots in the neighborhood, interfered, well, he had set up something nice for them too. God! How he loved runes!

Finishing his sandwich, Harry wiped his mouth, face, and hands clean, with paper napkins, before bundling up all the use materials and shoving them into a paper bag. Time to leave-The mayhem and anarchy he had scheduled for the day, was not going to be brought about by wistful thinking! Pushing the recliner lever back up to a seated position, Harry reached over next to him, and picked up the small, leather drawstring sack on the side table, and tucked it inside his pocket. In his past life, the thought that vampire fangs could have monetary value, was never something that crossed the then blond vampire slayer's mind. In his current life and world, they were worth twenty-one hundred galleons a pair-If you could get them at all. As Harry walked up the stone spiral staircase, he considered the rest of his plans-And not just for the rest of the day, but for the rest of the year at least.

After collecting enough money from his creature body parts sales, Harry had enough cash to hire a wizarding detective agency. Harry wanted to know if his 'family' was about in any form. The detailed report, he had received, caused Harry's emotions to spike and drop somewhat-His family did exist, but living somewhat different lives. Buffy's mother, Joyce, never met or married Hank Summers. Hence, no little Buffy Anne Summers. Hank was currently in the hospital, recovering from an assault by his lover's husband-His fifth wife had filed for a divorce, after stripping the house of anything of value and draining dry their joint bank accounts. She had hopped over to Spain, while Hank was having his broken bones set. Joyce was a well thought of, but, unmarried, childless archeologist and historian-Way to go, mom! Harry cheered with pride, he had always known Joyce could have done better then an art degree. Although, Harry was unhappy about Joyce's unmarried and childless state, there simply was nothing he could do about that.

Tragically, Rubert Giles, wizard, never survived his rebellious, wild child years. He and his gang OD'd on a batch of bad heroin.

His brother and sister in everything but blood, Xander and Willow, still had crappy parents, still lived in California. Willow's parents were still traveling psychologists, the only two improvements being they had dumped Willow in Bel Air, and had the wisdom to hire a nanny for her. Xander's parents were divorced-The judge declared them both unfit parents. Custody went to Xander's uncle Rory. They lived in Santa Barbara-Strangely enough, the same location where Sunnydale should have been.

Harry had the agency look for Jesse, either as male or female, but nothing was ever found . . .

The plans Harry had made, regarding his future, took into account resuming a relationship with them-Still, there were important questions floating around. Could they sincerely want him in their lives? Did they need him? Were they happy as they were? Most important of all, were they like his 'original' family? Harry nervously considered Joyce . . .She was childless. Could she possibly want to adopt?

Harry reached the top of the stairs. He pushed opened the closed wood and metal straps bound door just enough to emerge and stepped up upon the concrete slap floor of the garden shed. Once he was through, Harry allowed the heavy wood door to drop back down, closed. He dropped the paper bag he was carrying to the side. Harry turned back around to face the door on the floor, crouched down, spread his arms, and slid his fingers under the surprisingly thin door. Harry lifted the ends up and folded the laminated cardboard door with a painted brass pull ring on it, into three pieces. He slid the rectangular cardboard construct into the space between the shed wall and a shelf.

Right, Harry stood with his fists on his hips, frowning in concentration. What was first on the List? His lips curled into a happy smile. Dudley's baby pictures . . .Petunia did take the most embarrassing naked baby pictures he could remember ever seeing. Making certain every single student and faculty member at school had their own copies, was going to be somewhat time consuming. Still, Harry thought, as he happily skipped out of the shed, like anything worthwhile in life, it was one of those things that was going to be well worth the effort.

Okay, the little guy's a monster. But, honestly, what can you expect from someone in his circumstances?

Before anyone comments: Looking over the detective agency's report, Harry is beginning to suspect that Fate and Destiny are not going to be thwarted by a little thing like their Chosen One not being born. Nature hates a vacuum; and by that sinking feeling in his stomach, Harry thinks he knows who is going to full up that void.

Anyway, Harry is aware of the Wizarding world, and Dumbledore's schemes. He wants no part of any of it, and is actively making preparations to escape his evil, twisted relatives, Dumbledore, and Hogwarts before his letter arrives.

Harry's schemes don't all revolve around escape or vengeance plans. He is going to try and reconstitute his Sunnydale family. Harry misses Joyce, and sees her childless state as an opportunity. That maybe, he could get her to adopt him?

If somehow you missed the paragraph in the flashback, the one with the First Slayer, yes, the snake thing she's cooking is Tommy's horcrux.

Yep. Like, Eww.

As for wizards living on or nearby Privet Drive, consider the owls in the opening chapter. They were flying so close to the ground, they were practically smashing into the Dursley's first floor windows. They wouldn't have done that, unless they were coming in for a landing nearby. Then there were the wizards and witches Harry was frequently running into around the neighborhood, before getting his Hogwarts' letter.

How would Petunia have reacted to having 'freaks' for neighbors? Or knowing her beloved Privet Drive wasn't as 'normal' as she thought it was? I can imagine it's like a neo-Nazi waking up one morning, and discovering that there's a black, Jewish, family living next door to him.

Up next? Maybe Vernon, or Dudley.

_Star Wars_ was mentioned, so just in case: George Lucas owns _Star Wars_, not me. There, satisfied?

Thanks, and bye!


	3. Vernon And His Thoughts: Together Again

**Disclaimer:** I solemnly swear I own **NOTHING HERE!** J K Rowlings created and owns _Harry Potter_, the Universe he lives in, and everyone and everything running (or flying) around in it. _Buffy The Vampire Slayer_, any and all characters, materials, and settings were created by and belong to Joss Whedon and his gang. **REMEMBER, IF YOU RECOGNIZE IT, ****IT'S NOT MINE!**

Vernon's chapter is up. I know, I know, traditionally most HP stories open up with Vernon first, however, I felt that since Petunia, fueled by her psychotic grudge against her DEAD sister, the Source Of All Evil in Harry's home life, then she should have the opening curtain call.

Besides Vernon is a rather tricky character to write. He could easily be considered nothing more then an abusive thug, the fist that beats the crap out of Harry in any number of Fanfics. But Vernon is a lot more then Petunia's loud, nasty tool-He is a loving husband, tender and patient with his son, caring and sensitive with his sister; a conscientious hard worker . . .And a complete bastard to Harry.

See why I was having trouble with him?

Anyway, the chapter is done. Vernon, in this one, is suffering from the effects of a certain Human house elf's payback, and is toying with certain . . .ideas.

**DUMDADODADUMDADODADUMDADODAD UMDADODADUMDADODADU**

Vernon considers his life.

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Vernon And His Thoughts: Together Again

"God damn this to bloody hell!" Roared the heavyset man, with a thick walrus like moustache, struggling with the slippery wet tire iron.

Vernon Dursley red faced, his bedraggled moustache dripping rainwater at the tips, paused, breathing heavily. He looked up from his task of changing the flat tire on his car, took a brief glance up at the dark, pouring skies, then swiftly lowered his head and swiveled it around to glare at the passing cars and vehicles on the motorway.

He swallowed and breathed heavily, taking in the exhaust laced air. Vernon mentally screamed curses-His quiet pleas of 'Why?' going unheeded by the higher Powers above. Nothing was going right! Nothing had gone right ever since that devil child was dropped off on his front step! As if to agree with his assessment, the skies opened up with a heavier downpour. With horrible, obscene curses, Vernon went back to putting on the new tire.

Finally finished, a thoroughly wet and very cold Vernon slipped into the driver's seat of the dry, but chilly car interior, wincing over the amount of water washing into the upholstery. Nothing to be done about that, Vernon thought tiredly. He reached out to the ignition, with the key, slipped it into the slot and turned it. With the car engine rumbling quietly, Vernon flicked his wrist and the window wipers came to life, pushing away the rainwater, giving him an unobstructed view of the fast moving traffic to his right. He rested his big, meaty hands on the steering wheel, and remembered that day, that Tuesday, the day he had seen a cat reading a map, had been overcast as well. Of course, over nine years later, Vernon knew well and good that the cat had to have been one of _Them_. He sighed deeply. If he had known then . . .An image of him running down the cat in his car, popped into his head.

The wicked idea had Vernon briefly grinning, lifting his dark mood for a moment. Would that had helped with the Boy? Probably not, Vernon admitted silently. However, he snickered with sadistic glee, it would have made him feel good for a little while, and gifted him with a good memory to warm him up good and proper!

With a last dark chuckled, Vernon fell silent, once again, considering the sad joke his perfectly normal life had become. That Tuesday, he reflected with sorrow, was the last day he and his family enjoyed a normal life. Yes, even barring the cat, the owls, the strangely dressed people, and yes, even that oddly dressed old man hugging him, that day had been . . .Normal.

Vernon then proceeded to do what he always did whenever he thought about the day after-He shook with rage. With that impotent, righteous rage he had growing inside him for years. How dare they! How dare they drop off that damn boy without permission! How dare those freaks _demand_ they take in that boy! Worse yet, write a note with a 'Oh, by the way . . .Your sister's dead'! It was the second time Vernon had seen his precious Pet break down in deep, grieving sobs-The first time had been for her parents death, and he ended up holding Petunia's quivering body, comforting her for the rest of the night.

Taking a moment to compose himself, Vernon, breathing heavily, darkly mused that if Pet had been just a little less loud about finding the boy that morning, maybe they would have had a chance to drop him off at one of the neighbors doorstep. Sans the identifying letter, naturally, Vernon smirked cruelly.

Sadly, Pet's scream had awakened too many neighbors-Inquisitive faces peering out from behind curtains attested to that. After that, it was grin and bear years of freakish happenings-His car attracting some trouble or another, practically on a daily base. Personal hygiene products going so strangely wrong. Shoes and clothing shrinking and expanding-Vernon made an unhappy face, his underwear was tighter then he was comfortable with, especially around the crotch. As for the food . . .Vernon could honestly never recall having suffered so many instances of diarrhea, nausea or heartburn before. He had lost track of the number of times he and his family had been diagnosed with food poisoning-And that was well bloody impossible, given how Pet only purchased the finest quality food items, and watched out for the expiration dates!

Vernon sat quietly in his car, listening to the repeating _'Swish-Thunk'_ of the window wipers, the rain drumming on the car roof, the steady thrum of the engine, even the wet sliding sound made by fast spinning tires driving through standing water. The sky above had, if anything, become darker, the down pour even heavier. In that relative solitude, Vernon's thoughts took on a rebellious shade. The large man caught himself calmly considering, what if . . .? What if he took another route-? Another road that lead away from Privet drive and what lived in it? Away from the freaks and the insanity they brought with them-After all, as the letter explained, it was Pet's blood that was important to them, not his. He could just keep driving, file for divorce, allowed her to keep the house, most of the money, Dudley . . .

He shifted uneasily in his chair, making the leather squeak.

Could he? Could he just leave everyone and everything he had worked so hard for? It was a moment . . . Just a moment. Still, he could . . .but, no. Vernon doubted he could. His tense body deflated. Regardless of everything-He loved her. He loved Petunia. May God helped him, he loved her so very, very much!

Vernon closed his eyes in resignation, and sighed. He leaned his forehead against the steering wheel, and rested his aching pounding head there for a moment.

For Vernon, his Pet was the reason why he was able to get up in the mornings, because she was going to be there when he woke up. She was the reason he was able to go through those foul, soul-destroying commutes; put up with all those worthless, lazy, incompetent people. She was the reason he submitted himself to humiliation at the hands of his immediate superiors and clients. For the sake of his beloved, Vernon had put up with tedious, boring meetings. He had tolerated ambitious, deceitful and treacherous co-workers, and survived, and thrived, in spite of their games.

All of that . . .All of that and more, for the sake of his Pet, and later, his son, Dudley.

He loved her. He loved his Pet. He loved his son.

Could he abandon them? Abandon his family? Save himself, and leave his wife and son to deal with those freaks, and that devil, by themselves?

No.

Vernon breathed in the car's petrol tainted air, pulled his body back until it came to rest up against the padded, leather chair back. With his eyes still closed, Vernon reached up and to the side of the car for the seat belt. Absently, Vernon drew it across his body, clicked it in place, and then opened his eyes.

He sat there, looking past the working wipers; a slow bitter smile crawled on his lips.

Right, he had better get going then, or he would truly be late for supper. With that thought, Vernon Dursley put the car into Drive and maneuvered it into traffic. Just another normal commuter going home to his normal family.

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A lot darker then what I originally intended, but look, I didn't want to present the usual knuckle walking ape, but Vernon is such a difficult bastard to write-He's NOT a nice guy. He's certainly not politically correct. He tends to be weak willed when it comes to Petunia, supporting, and sometimes, participating in her cruel and vicious schemes against her nephew. Hell, there is some sincere suspicion he could have profited from those schemes.

However, he is extremely loyal, protective, and, bizarrely enough, loving, when it comes down to the people he thinks of as family-Sadly, Harry is not in that group.

Vernon sincerely loves Petunia. Sure, he knows she's damaged, and could be dangerous, but he still loves her. Vernon reminds me of Spike-Both love and care for damaged, dangerous, women.

I could go on and give out a lengthy Vernon/Harry father figure rant and rave. But, instead, I think I'll save that for a future story.

So, until the next, and FINAL chapter, good bye, and thanks for reading this fic!

Next up: Dudley!


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